Azubah started to laugh. “Someday one of those birds will lay eggs in your hair.”
“Well, then I’ll have an excuse for not combing it.”
A huge bug hovered in front of his face, startling Azubah until she realized it was a hummingbird. Bullfrog held up his finger and the tiny red-throated creature landed. He smiled and turned it from side to side, admiring it. “My favorite bird of them all,” he said.
Azubah stared in wonder until it flew off again. “I still do not understand how do you do it,” she exclaimed. “How do you get them to come to you?”
He chuckled. “It helps that I feed them.”
“It’s more than that. I could feed them for years and it would never happen to me.”
“Well, I’m in the trees more than I am on the ground. Maybe they think I’m one of them.” His brow furrowed as he considered it further. “I also invite them to come to me. Not out loud but in my mind. Maybe that has something to do with it. They hear me somehow.”
“Well, you need to find a way to un-invite them too,” she said, standing up and brushing herself off. “That swarm of birds gives you away every time we play hide and seek.”
“Should we play it now?”
“No, like you said the birds--”
“I know. I know.”
“Have you seen any good ant hills?”
“Yes, I saw a big one yesterday right over here.”
They walked a short distance and lay down marveling at them, dragging and arranging grains of sand, fortifying their hill. Azubah put her chin on her hands. She could watch the little creatures forever. Suddenly, she noticed a tiny, red spider crawling up her sleeve. Gently she lowered it to the ground and said, “I had that dream again about the will-o’-the-wisp turning me into a spider.”
“Did you wake up outside again?”
She nodded.
“A will-o’-the-wisp,” he said, thoughtfully. “All my years on the marsh, and I have only seen one.”
“Do you think I am being visited by demons?”
He shrugged. “I don’t know. Perhaps you are just remembering another life.”
“Another life? Something other than heaven or hell?”
“The Hooded Ones say we are reborn many times and that we live many lives.”
Azubah picked a blade of grass and chewed on it. Hearing this made her feel better. “Maybe they’re right. Sometimes I feel as if there is something else, somewhere else. Do you ever feel that way?”
“Sometimes.”
“How old are you, Bullfrog?”
His wide face wrinkled in thought. It was the face of a boy soon to become a man. “Many times I have tried to remember my age. Seven seasons have come and gone since my family died. That much I know,”
“Do you ever get lonely?”
“No, I have all this!” and he rolled over raising his arms in the air.
Azubah frowned. “I wish felt the same way.”
* * *
At sunset, it was time to go to the Mayweather homestead. Azubah stood by Bullfrog’s barrel of rainwater and rinsed her legs. They were muddy to the knees. “I’ll be back as soon as I can,” she said.
“Don’t forget to look in the trees,” he called to her. “I’ll be watching you.”
“I will!” she replied.
There were heavy clouds overhead and the light was fading on the marsh. Azubah dried her feet and tied her latchet shoes. After stuffing her hair back into her coif, she picked up the baskets and started up the lane. A heaviness fell upon her when the Mayweather cottage came into view. As much as she loved her aunt and uncle, it happened every time she returned to her family after seeing Bullfrog. The magic and enchantment of the marsh was replaced with drudgery and ennui, so much so that Azubah wondered if her visits to Bullfrog were just another dream.
The Mayweather home was like every other Puritan structure in the area, a simple clapboard dwelling with a roof of thatch gathered from the marsh. The only thing unusual about it was its location; it was far from the other settlements. Originally part of the hamlet where Bullfrog was born, Gideon and Faye Mayweather started a hay farm outside of the hamlet. Everyone warned them that the site left them vulnerable to attack, but they didn’t listen. In the end, it was what saved them. The Indians set the hamlet on fire and did not bother to burn the outlying farmstead.
Gideon and Faye were grateful they had been spared, but tragedy found them another way. Late one afternoon, Faye became worried when Gideon did not return from the fields. Running through the hay, she found him on the ground, mute and helpless. His heart was still beating strongly, but his eyes were staring vacantly. Terrified, Faye fetched Josiah and Abigail but there was nothing to be done. They could only help her bring him into the house where he lay for the next year, motionless and insensible while staring at the ceiling. No one knew what manner of illness had struck him, but Faye remained hopeful of a recovery, tending him night and day. She fed him pottage and liquids keeping him alive, but he was nothing more than a living skeleton.
It began to pour as Azubah approached the house; the chickens pecking in the yard scattered. The rain ran down into her eyes and drenched her clothes. The laundry was getting soaked. She dashed over, yanking it from the line into her arms, piece by piece.
When she burst into the house, she found Aunt Faye sitting by the bed reading out loud to Uncle Gideon. Azubah’s sudden entrance did not startle her aunt. Instead, she looked up slowly and said in her childlike voice, “Why, it’s my little niece.”
“Aunt Faye, did you not hear the rain?” Azubah exclaimed as she stood dripping on the rug.
“No.”
“Your wash is soaked.”
She shrugged. “It matters not. It will dry. Reading to Gideon is more important.”
Azubah sighed. Of course, Aunt Faye would feel that way.
The Mayweather house was a humble dwelling with one large room. There were heavy smoke-stained rafters, a hearth, table and chairs, a few cooking utensils and a bedstead. A loft upstairs held food stores, as well as corn cobs, cheeses and herbs which hung from the ceiling to dry. Ordinarily, this is where the offspring would sleep, but Gideon and Faye were childless.
Kissing her aunt on the cheek, Azubah asked, “How do you fare?”
“We are well. It fills us with joy to see you again.”
Although she was approaching middle age, Faye Mayweather still looked like a young girl. Small and slight, with light, wispy hair, translucent skin, and pale blue eyes, Azubah thought she looked more like a fairy than a flesh and blood woman. Soft-spoken and kind, she was given to daydreaming; the complete opposite of Azubah’s humorless mother.
Many thought she was daft, but in reality, she was highly intelligent. Often neglecting her household duties, she would read, spend hours staring at the clouds, or just walking. But because she was a devout Christian and a student of the Bible, the community was never threatened by her. Unlike her dogmatic contemporaries, Faye Mayweather did not take every word of Scripture literally, but she never argued, so there were few disagreements. Even so, her views worried Gideon. This was one of the reasons he had decided to settle outside of the hamlet. It was to protect her from the intolerance that ran rampant in the towns.
“Good morrow, Uncle Gideon,” Azubah said, leaning over the bed. It was hard to recognize the man she had known all her life. Gone was her handsome, robust uncle in the prime of life. He was replaced by a shadow with sunken cheeks, protruding teeth and eyes that were vacant and cloudy.
“All his hair is gone now,” Aunt Faye said, stroking his hand.
Azubah nodded. “Aye, I wish it were not so.” She stepped over to the hearth to hang up the laundry.
Faye watched her affectionately. “How is my sister?”
“She is busy with the new baby. They are all very busy.”
“Surely you did not walk here alone.”
“No, Matthew brought me.”
“Why did he not come up to the house?”<
br />
Azubah hesitated. “He could not. He had work to do at the mill.”
Suddenly, Aunt Faye exclaimed, “Here let me help you with those clothes.”
Azubah breathed a sigh of relief, glad her aunt did not press her about Matthew’s abrupt return home.
There was a great deal of laundry, most of it consisting of small clothes to keep Uncle Gideon clean since he could not use the chamber pot.
“Shall I bring up the fire outside for more wash?” Azubah offered.
“Not yet, dearest,” Aunt Faye said. She sat down heavily and brushed a wisp of hair from her face. “Come visit with me first.”
Azubah took a chair and looked around the one-room dwelling. The hearth needed scouring. There were bugs on the floor, candle wax all over the table and mouse droppings on the food shelves. She wondered if the loft was even dirtier. That is where she would sleep. “Look what I brought,” she said, opening one of the baskets. “Here’s food from mother, soap, candles and some shirts for Uncle Gideon. Look what I made for you.” She held up a woolen cloak of dark blue. “Winter is coming. You’ll need this.”
“Oh, my!” she cried, putting her hands to her cheeks. “Tis most beautiful.” She gathered the cloak onto her lap and stroked the wool as if it were fur.
“Will you allow me to do some embroidery, just around the hood?” Azubah asked.
“I would be so grateful.”
“Mother never lets me embroider.”
“Mores the pity. I see no harm in a bit of adornment.”
“I’ll sit by the fire and do some every night before bed.”
Aunt Faye reached up and touched Azubah’s cheek. “You are so dear to me. You know that we are so alike.”
“Grandfather says we are cut from the same cloth.”
“Aye, he knows.”
* * *
Azubah crawled up the ladder to the loft a week later thoroughly exhausted. She had cleaned for a week, made endless meals, did laundry and helped with the care of her uncle. Dropping onto her pallet, she slept a heavy dreamless sleep.
The next day was filled with even more chores. She scanned the trees looking for Bullfrog each time she stepped outside, but he was nowhere to be found.
In the past, when her aunt dozed in the afternoon, Azubah would steal away to be with him; but, this time it would be impossible. Her aunt’s sleep was fitful and unpredictable. She was up sometimes all night, pacing and talking to herself. She seemed more distracted than usual, and her words did not always make sense. It was clear that she, too, was getting sick. She feared that it was not an illness of the body, but of the mind.
What would she tell her mother? There was more and more work to be done here and food was alarmingly low. Aunt Faye had lived comfortably off her bountiful garden the past year, but now it was overgrown with weeds. Would she have to live here permanently, taking care of them both and waiting for Matthew to bring food? Bringing her aunt and uncle to Plum River was out of the question. The villagers thought they were bewitched.
“Food is scant, Aunt Faye,” Azubah said one evening. “I have to go back and fetch more.”
Aunt Faye looked at her dreamily. “Just wait a day or so. Have no fear. God will provide.”
Azubah sighed and went back to her embroidery. Yes, God provides, but we are the agents of his will. I cannot wait for Matthew to come back in a week.
The next morning, as she climbed down from the loft, she announced, “I must go back today for food.”
Aunt Faye put her sewing down and stood up. “The sun is coming up. Let’s look outside.”
She took Azubah by the hand and led her out into the gray dawn. The air was heavy with moisture and the crickets were loud. The trees were still in shadows.
Aunt Faye walked to the woods, looked up and pointed. “See? Tis God’s will.”
Hanging from the branches of an oak were four large sacks bulging with something heavy.
Azubah was confounded. She reached up, took one of them down, and opened it. She found dried meat, potatoes, corn, beans and freshly baked bread. Azubah looked up at her aunt in amazement, “Where did this come from?”
“It is from The Hooded Ones, dearest.”
Chapter 4
The path was dappled with morning sun and Circe was glad to be alive. To her, this time of day was always filled with promise and buzzing with energy. The birds were chattering, and the trees were a hundred different shades of green.
She walked down the path, searching for plants and flowers to color her cloth. Her pursuit took her to a small, freshwater slough. Brushing the hair from her eyes, she smiled. As usual, blackbirds were flying from cattail to cattail while calling to one another. She marveled at how well they balanced themselves on the spongy brown tops of the plants.
With her skirts tied up, she wound her way through the weeds and grasses cutting herbs and flowers and placing them in a wicker basket. When she looked up, something caught her eye across the swamp. There were seven people standing in a row wearing long, white hooded robes. Her heart jumped. They were facing her, standing erect with their arms at their sides. They did not move. “The Hooded Ones!” she gasped.
Narrowing her eyes, she tried to see their faces, but they were shadowed by the cowls they wore. Yet, she could feel them staring at her. She was close enough to see that each robe was fastened with a golden brooch and embroidered with an intricate design. Instantly, she recognized the pattern of interwoven knots sewn onto the garments. It was her workmanship. She would know it anywhere. They were all wearing robes that she had crafted.
She stared across the pond at them mesmerized, but this was not the sinister enchantment of the will-o’-the-wisp. She could feel their warmth. It was benevolent and kind.
A feeling of supreme peace washed over Circe. In her mind, she could hear these strangers chanting and feel them calling to her; but she could not answer. One of them held a hand out to her, but she could not move. Oh, how she wanted to wade across the slough to these quiet souls.
Then, the vision began to undulate like ripples in water. The Hooded Ones faded and disappeared. Circe scanned the woods. Had they stepped back into the trees? She ran to look, but they were nowhere to be found. All that remained were seven oak trees standing in a row.
Tears rolled down her cheeks. She felt supremely lonely, but when she looked down. The humble little knife she had been using to gather plants had been replaced with a tiny golden sickle. It was delicate and beautiful, ornamented with her design of woven knots. When Circe picked it up, it caught the rays of the sun with a brilliance that blinded her.
Suddenly, she was back in her own bed in Plum River and she was Azubah Craft once more. Rubbing her eyes, she sat up. The comforting dream faded as she dressed, replaced with worry.
“Truly Mother, something is wrong,” she said at breakfast. “Aunt Faye has changed. She’s not sleeping well; her talk makes no sense.”
“This is foolishness, Azubah. Faye has always been queer, and now that she has no one with whom to speak, she has taken to conversing with herself. That is all.”
“But, Mother--”
“Enough!” Abigail barked, picking up the baby. “You exaggerate, and I will not have you setting me to worry! Now go. You have work to do.”
Azubah sat down at the loom and looked around the room. As much as she loved making cloth, the amount of work that had accumulated was staggering. And tomorrow was the Sabbath. She would be at service all day and unable to work; so, she had to hurry. Yet, she felt better once she was back into the rhythm of weaving. It was familiar and calming, a feeling akin to the serenity she felt in her dream about The Hooded Ones.
How curious it was, and it was the first of its kind. Most of her dreams were repeated over and over, but this one was new and the first involving The Hooded Ones. Who were these phantoms? And how odd that they were wearing garments she had woven and embroidered. Why? Was it merely a memory of her embroidery on Aunt Faye’s cloak?
She
remembered the stitching on their robes. How she loved that pattern. Ever since she was a child, she had sewn that same knotted design again and again. It had haunted her as long as she could remember, lingering in her mind like a dim memory. In her spare time, she would sew endless variations of the same theme, over and over on scraps of cloth. But she had to hide her work. Her mother called it pagan. When she couldn’t embroider the pattern, she would draw it in the dirt or run her finger over the mouser’s fur, tracing it again and again.
Azubah stopped treadling and stared. Who were these Hooded Ones? Surely they did not exist. But then what would explain their manifestation to both Bullfrog and Aunt Faye? And those bags hanging in the trees; they were not products of her fancy.
Azubah knew the Great Marsh was filled with enchantments, but she had always believed they were supernatural delights, rather than malevolent forces. Were these apparitions possibly manifestations of the Devil?
Azubah tucked her hair back into her coif and started weaving again. The Hooded Ones brought food and comfort to those who were in need. How could that be wicked? Tonight she would speak with Grandfather. She would see if he had ever heard of The Hooded Ones.
“You have been in the sun, my little granddaughter,” Enoch exclaimed when Azubah set his supper before him at the mill. “You have even more fern-tickles.”
Azubah put her hands on her cheeks. “Oh, no!”
“Be proud of them. Tis where the sun has kissed you.”
Azubah sat down with a frown. She didn’t like her freckles or her crimson hair. They were an embarrassment to her parents and almost as shameful as wearing a red letter.
“Likely you will lose your sun spots as you mature,” he said, holding his arm out. “But they will reappear in old age.”
Azubah looked down at the dark spots on her grandfather’s hand. “I hope so.”
She watched while he ate his supper, but Azubah fiddled and fidgeted so much. He asked finally, “What plagues you, firefly?”
She swallowed hard. “Grandfather, have you ever heard of The Hooded Ones?”
“Who?”
The Firefly Witch (Bold Women of the 17th Century Series, Book 1) Page 3